


Albedo

by tikistitch



Category: Welcome to Night Vale
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-08-25
Updated: 2013-08-25
Packaged: 2017-12-24 15:30:23
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,976
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/941586
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tikistitch/pseuds/tikistitch
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Cecil hosts a housewarming barbecue, and an ancient harbinger of the apocalypse rises behind the gas station on Third Street (no, not <i>that</i> gas station, the other one).</p>
            </blockquote>





	Albedo

**Title:** Albedo  
 **Fandom:** Welcome to Night Vale  
 **Author:** tikific  
 **Rating:** PG-13  
 **Characters/Pairings:** Cecil/Carlos, Old Woman Josie, angels, Steve Carlsberg, Tamika Flynn  
 **Warnings:** Cursing, descriptions of some violence (this is Night Vale, folks), sexual situations.  
 **Word Count:** 9,200  
 **Summary:** Cecil hosts a housewarming barbecue, and an ancient harbinger of the apocalypse rises behind the gas station on Third Street (no, not that gas station, the other one).  
 **Notes:** I’ve had a request for Night Vale angels eating pie. Since all of my other angels eat pie. This is what happened. (More notes at the end.)

 

_“I have a few announcements, listeners. First, the PTA meeting will begin at 8:30 pm tonight instead of 8 to allow more time for cleaning up any remnants of bloodshed from the prior Stitch ‘n Bitch conclave at 5 pm. Memorial services for Night Vale's knitting club casualties to be announced later, but in lieu of flowers, it is urged you make a donation by crouching in the middle of your street, signaling your intentions by means of origami paper craft. The Night Vale secret police will absorb donations directly via your central nervous system. The city council has a plea to whoever has been replacing all of the traffic lights with totem poles: this is not acceptable as it ties up rush hour traffic, plus a number of the local tiki gods have lodged a complaint about cultural appropriation. Remember, listeners, when you appropriate, we all of us lose! Also, there have been reports of a vast Mesoamerican stone temple complex that has just appeared out of nowhere over on Third Street, near the gas station – not the new gas station, the other one, the one with those cute old fashioned pumps the tourists like to photograph.”_

 

A lizard darted into the sun. It flicked its tongue, and disappeared under a rock.

Carlos reached over and turned down the radio. He hunkered down over his equipment, clutching his clipboard and squinting at the spinning mirror plates inside the delicate glass bulb's semi-perfect vacuum. They fluttered by like surreal butterfly wings. The park was quiet today, as the mysterious hooded figures were reportedly all off at volleyball camp for the summer.

“The angels would like to know what you’re doing.”

After a full year residing in Night Vale, Carlos really shouldn’t have reacted. He should have gotten used to this sort of thing – suddenly appearing old ladies hanging over his shoulder while he was trying to take a reading – but instead he sprang up, lost his balance, and pitched forward, bumping his head on an overhanging tree limb, thus dropping his clipboard, the papers scattering in the wind. 

(And he quite possibly might also have emitted a really embarrassing girlie scream while he was doing all this.)

“Sorry,” said Old Woman Josie, as Carlos rubbed the now rising bump on his noggin. “The angels wanted to know.” 

Carlos cursed under his breath and bent over to retrieve the clipboard and gather the scattered papers. “It's all right,” he assured her. “I'm just taking readings.”

“What kind of readings?”

He straightened up and sorted sorrowfully through the now badly wrinkled lab notes. “Just…. _Science._ It's complicated.”

“They call me Old Woman Josie. Not Dumb as a Brick Josie, ya know.”

He glanced up from his woefully crinkled notes to actually look at her. Josie's face was framed by waves of soft, silver hair, but her eyes were clear, and a sort of pale blue. A little like beryllium – the aquamarine kind. Hexagonal crystals with dipyramidal symmetry.

“Albedo,” he told her. 

“Albedo,” she repeated reverently, hitching up her long skirt to sit cross-legged on the grass across from him.

“I'm gauging ambient radiation. Night Vale is an anomaly. In many ways. But especially in this way: radiant energy comes in. It doesn't leave. It's … a mystery.” The two of them watched the radiometer twirl, for a time considering laws of thermodynamics and suchlike.

“Do you have any hypotheses?” asked Josie.

Carlos smiled slightly, pleased that Josie knew the correct plural form. “I always have hypotheses,” he answered, mysteriously raising an eyebrow.

Josie tilted her head, one finger on her chin, smiling back.

“You know, you’re not so old,” Carlos told her.

“And you’re not so perfect.”

Carlos nodded sadly.

“So, you're here doing experiments all on your own?” she asked.

“A scientist is self-reliant,” Carlos stated confidently.

Old Woman Josie was still staring at him, eyes like jewels. “You don't know what you are, do you?” 

He peered questioningly at her. “What am I?”

There was a pause. “You should come by my place,” Josie told him, fussing with her skirt. “We're all watching NCIS. There will be pie.”

“The angels?” asked Carlos. Not that he believed in angels. As they didn't exist. This however did not make him any less curious about them.

“Yes. The angels. They're all big fans of police procedurals.”

“That might be nice,” said Carlos, carefully recording his observations on his clipboard. He flicked his pen, which seemed to have chosen this very moment to run out of ink.

“Then we're set. Tuesday evening. Don't be late. And you can bring Cecil. He's such a nice boy.”

Carlos turned to ask Old Woman Josie what time, but with a breeze and a soft noise that sounded very much like the flapping of wings, she had disappeared, and he was alone once again.

 

“I really can't stand those PTA meetings anymore,” grumbled Cecil, tossing a half pound of reduced fat ground ostrich into his grocery cart, which had one annoying wibbly-wobbly squeaky wheel. “The scones are too dry, and my bullet-proof vest is really too stifling to wear in this lousy weather.”

“Wouldn't you expect a heat wave? I mean, Night Vale _is_ located in the middle of an arid ecosystem.” Carlos trailed Cecil through the grocery store as the radio personality piled up stocks for his upcoming barbecue. “Besides, I don't understand why you even attend PTA meetings: you don't have a child in school.”

“I'm an intrepid reporter, Carlos!” said Cecil, his unusual pink eyes peering over the dark sunglasses he tended to wear, even indoors. “I am everywhere. Besides,” he added, and here a sort of wistfulness entered his voice, “I may have a child in school. Some day.”

Carlos smiled down at Cecil, wondering not for the first time why an albino would choose to make his home in the desert. On the other hand, Night Vale was not a particularly sunny place, what with mysterious hovering glow clouds and malevolent shadow energy and the like. 

“So, what's your scientific opinion about the vast Mesoamerican stone temple that just appeared near the gas station on Third?” Cecil asked.

This gave Carlos pause. “The _new_ gas station?”

“No. Not that one. The old station. With the cute gas pumps.”

“I hadn't heard about it.” Carlos emitted a sigh. “I suppose I should investigate it. You know. For science.” A year ago he would have been on the spot with his crack team of scientists. But now, well, between the ravenous feral dogs and that unfortunate incident with the sentient macaroni and cheese mixes, his scientific team had been decimated down to just one remaining member: _him_. Plus, Cecil was planning his first big party at the new place, and he needed moral support. From a friend. Strange phenomena and harbingers of the inevitably looming apocalypse would just have to wait this time, Carlos decided.

“Do you think barbecue chips, salt and vinegar chips, chicken and waffles chips, or iguana tongue chips?” Cecil asked, holding up an array of crinkly bags.

“Iguana … _what_?”

“I'll just get them all,” said Cecil, heedlessly chucking them up onto the pile in the already overfilled cart. “Try and keep up!” he called. He mischievously put one foot up on the bar that spanned the rear wheels and pushed off, sailing heedlessly around the corner, the wobbly wheel squeaking away.

“Careful, Cecil!” warned Carlos as Cecil skidded to a halt, nearly colliding with an oncoming cart. Cecil paused, hackles raised, and Carlos hurried around the corner to see what was happening. He smelled a funny odor, something like burning resin.

 _“Steve Carlsberg,”_ growled Cecil, regarding the man behind the opposing cart, and Carlos felt the mercury in the thermometer creep downwards as a chill hung in the air.

“Hello, _Cecil_ ,” said Steve Carlsberg, voice dripping sarcasm. He regarded the overfilled cart, a sparkling rainbow-hued banner that said “PARTY” trailing along behind it. “Hey, are you planning a _party_ or something?”

“No,” said Cecil.

“Cecil,” whispered Carlos.

“ _Carlos the Scientist_ ,” said Steve Carlsberg, twiddling with the little black mirror he always wore on his belt. “Any word on the Mesoamerican temple over on Third Street? The one behind the gas station? What does _science_ have to say?”

Carlos bristled, standing tall in his casual every day lab coat. No one was snarky about science!

“ _Which_ gas station?” hissed Cecil.

“Um....” Steve Carlsberg was obviously caught unawares. He and Cecil glared at each other, like two lizards displaying dominance behavior.

“Come on, Cecil,” said Carlos, grabbing his favorite radio host by the back of his shirt and literally hauling him off. “We still need to pick up ice cream.”

“Steve Carlsberg. What an asshole,” whispered Cecil as they strayed into the frozen novelties aisle. They loaded the cart with Neapolitan and butter brickle, although Cecil didn't really calm down until they had finally braved the checkout aisle. The checkout clerk had the vacant stare of the undead. He wasn't really under a spell though: minimum wage retail jobs are just generally crappy.

“Do you think I got enough hot dog buns?” Cecil asked as they buzzed through the automatic door. The lifting of the ban on bread and bread by-products by the city council had been much welcomed by the citizenry, although a new rage for bread sandwiches (rye on whole wheat with a pumpernickel garnish) had caused there to be ongoing shortages for the first few weeks. 

Cecil and Carlos ducked as they were nearly whacked by the tail of an archaeopteryx flying by outside. The air was familiarly hot, but also strangely humid. And the parking lot was now a swamp. They had ventured through the door and arrived not in the parking lot but rather in what appeared to be Night Vale in that wiggly bit between the Jurassic and Cretaceous periods. Which was really a kind of shit span of history.

“God dammit, this can't be happening!” raved Cecil. “I don't have time for interdimensional portals. I have frozen snacks in the cart!”

“Cecil....”

“I can't wait countless eons for motor vehicles to be invented! I have to get my ice cream sandwiches back to my place before it melts.”

Carlos put a steadying hand on his friend's shoulder. “Back up,” he ordered. It was a hunch, not even a hypothesis, but Carlos thought it was a good one. Cecil wrenched the cart backwards, wobbly wheel squeaking, and slowly they retraced their footsteps over where the threshold had been. They were rewarded with the whoosh of the automatic door and the chill of air conditioning.

Cecil had already whirled around to confront one of the aimless clerks. “This automatic door has turned into a time vortex! And I have frozen food in the cart!”

“Yeah. Need to get that fixed,” muttered the clerk, his eyes deadened by months of unremunerative toil in the retail sector. He shrugged and shambled off.

“Let's just use the other door,” Carlos suggested.

Cecil piloted the cart over to the other door, and out into the familiar dry heat of the parking lot. Muttering to himself about lousy customer service, Cecil wrenched open back of his hatchback and began transferring the many paper sacks into his car.

“Oh, Cecil?”

“Yes?”

“I saw Old Woman Josie in the park. She's having a.... She's having a _thing_.”

“A thing?”

“She invited you.”

“Me?” The eyes were peeking over the sunglasses again, now widened with anticipation.

“Yeah. You and me.”

“You and me? Us?”

“She invited … you and me.” 

Cecil's smile shone brightly in the perpetual twilight of Night Vale.

 

_“[Stomping and crushing noises.] Listeners! As you are no doubt aware, Night Vale is currently undergoing a serious invasion of trilobites. As you might be unaware, however, these omnipresent prehistoric arthropods are the result of the time vortex located in the automatic doorway of the A &P getting stuck open. When asked for comment, the manager of the local A&P, Lorenzo Studebaker, would only say, 'Yeah, we need to fix that.' [Frantic screaming is heard in the background, which trails off to an ominous silence.] Now, I don't want to editorialize here, but a swarm of these anachronistic menaces just ate Intern Florence. And she only had three units left before she graduated from community college! I would strongly urge any interested citizens to immediately petition the A&P for action in this matter. To quote the City Council, [Cecil imitates frenzied shrieking.]”_

 

Carlos warily approached the temple, pausing at the bottom of the broad stone steps, peering up into the dimness. He heard a strange, low hum, and saw an eerie glow up near the top. The smell of burning incense pervaded the air.

There was something wrong here. Even more out of the ordinary than was usual for Night Vale. He mounted the stairs, a sense of panic also slowly rising as he neared the top. Why had he come here all alone? He couldn't seem to remember. He cast his thoughts back to the events of the day. He recalled swatting away trilobites with a push broom as he tried to make his way into the WTNV station after a desperate call from Cecil. He had no idea trilobites were carnivorous: that was sort of weird. And unlikely. Except in Night Vale.

But then one of the little bastards, hissing away, had dropped on his head (did trilobites climb walls? Another fact they'd neglected to offer in his paleontology classes), knocking him flat, and Cecil had come storming out of the booth, blasting away at them with a fire extinguisher. And then, wielding broom and the empty fire extinguisher, they had somehow made it out of the station, to the parking lot and into Carlos's car, leaping in like horrible cliché TV detectives without even opening the doors. Carlos had jammed on the accelerator, speeding down the highway. Cecil tilted down his sunglasses as they raced along, hearts beating fast, and those weird eyes with their unpigmented irises stared at him, laughing, pale hair blowing in the wind, and Carlos thought he had never felt so … _alive_. Alive and present and _real_.

He stomped on the brakes, pulling to the side of the road, tires squealing in protest. And then he grabbed Cecil and yanked him close and kissed him. And so the two of them sat in the front seat for some time, lips mashing, teeth clacking, hands fumbling everywhere, making out like mad, hormone-addled teenagers.

And then he’d driven Cecil home. For what must have been the hundredth time, Cecil invited him inside, but Carlos made some ridiculous, half-assed excuse, and then drove away, leaving Cecil standing on his front porch, squinting at him, disappointed, over his sunglasses. But something wasn’t right, though Carlos wasn’t exactly certain _what_.

And that... That was really all he remembered. Another typical summer’s afternoon in Night Vale.

Breathing harder now, he mounted the last steps, coming in sight of the stone altar. And then he spotted it: there was someone laid out on the altar. A sacrifice! 

He leapt up the last few steps, heart racing. The priest's feathered headdress. The glint of the black obsidian knife, raised over a live, beating heart.

_“CARLOS!”_

And then he was sitting up in bed, body slicked in cold sweat, sheets lying in a tangled mess.

The Big Rico's pizza sign, visible just out the window, flashed on and off, on and off.

 

“Would you like some pink lemonade?” asked Old Woman Josie, pointing to the angel, who was hunched over, holding out a tray.

“Yes, thanks,” said Carlos, as he and Cecil took a couple of frosty glasses in hand. “Thanks,” he added to the angel, which nodded and hummed with pleasure. Well, he supposed it was pleased. It had no mouth, so he couldn't exactly see it smile. But the many eyes running in two parallel lines up and down the face all crinkled in a contented fashion.

As the angels were quite tall, and Old Woman Josie's ceiling was not, they were all of them somewhat hunched over, which made things slightly unnerving when one was speaking to them, as they tended to hold their jewel-eyed faces uncomfortably close. 

“We are fond of the character, Abby Sciuto. As she is adorable, and dresses in a whimsical manner,” a pure white angel with shining topaz eyes told them. As it didn't have a mouth, it couldn't properly be said to speak. The voice more like appeared to be resonating inside your head. Which also made these encounters unnerving. 

Carlos scanned the room, wondering if these remarkable creatures were in fact angels. They certainly bore some resemblance to traditional reports of celestial beings: vaguely humanoid in shape, with rather prominent wings extending from roughly the thoracic region of their spines. Carlos marveled at the anatomy of it, wondering if the wings could be used in actual flight as, unlike true avians, these creatures lacked the deeply rooted pectoral muscles that were a feature of birds.

“Do you have any cocktail weenies?” Cecil was asking Old Woman Josie. He rubbed his stomach. “Some cursed boll weevils blanketed the radio station this afternoon, leaving death and devastation in their wake, and I’m a little peckish.”

“I made pie,” she told him. “The angels are mad for it. Especially the Dutch apple.” Indeed, a flock of angels was crowded around a small table set up with pastry. Carlos peered over, now wondering how the angels could consume food, given that they had no mouths.

He made to approach the table along with Cecil, but felt a smooth hand of an angel on his shoulder. This one was a fiery red in coloration, with wings of flame and deep onyx eyes. 

“You don’t know what you are, do you?” the voice inside Carlos’s head rattled at him. And then the angel was holding out something towards him. Carlos took it. “Smoke and mirrors,” said the angel. “All smoke and mirrors.”

“It’s starting!” came Josie’s voice as a catchy TV theme song sounded, and she and the angels, along with Cecil, all crowded around the television, clutching small, thin paper plates overfilled with delicious pastry.

Carlos opened his hand to see what the angel had given him. It was a clutch of gorgeous, multi-colored feathers. 

The angels had begun to mutter among themselves.

“Carlos!” hailed Cecil. “Get over here. You’ve got to get a load of these boots Abby is wearing!”

 

_“And now a word from our sponsors. Listeners, have you ever felt out of place? As if there were something else out there? Something perfect and beautiful, but immutably and forever out of your grasp? Have you ever wondered how it looks when the rain falls on an alien tundra, gazing off through the morning mists over the mountains? Do you have a vague sense of something stirring – something old and inchoate? Have you ever half glimpsed a vision, for a tenth of a second, just around the corner, and forever out of sight? Have you tried nose drops? Because, frankly, it could be allergies. Your eyes are looking a little bloodshot and itchy.”_

 

“Do you think we’ll have enough for the vegetarians?”

“Are there any vegetarians in Night Vale?” asked Carlos, gazing into his radiometer. He had decided to amuse himself by checking the albedo out on Cecil’s new patio. The house had suddenly come on the market after the owners decided it would be a nifty idea to check out Night Vale’s new subway system. 

And then Carlos noted with a mild sense of rising panic that Cecil had employed the first person plural pronoun, _“we.”_

“Of course there are vegetarians, Carlos. There are those of us who have pledged their eternal souls to the jealous god, Flabados. You can see them dancing in the town square, rending their garments, screaming to the heavens, and selling their cookbooks. They’re very cute, they have a picture of an elephant on the cover.”

Carlos squinted at his apparatus. “I think we’ll have enough.” 

Cecil was futzing around the barbecue, his cheeks puffing out, blowing on the coals. “Would you be a dear and go and get more tofu dogs? And maybe pick up a couple more bloodstones for my circle? It’s been looking a little ragged.”

Carlos glanced over at Cecil’s ritual circle. It was indeed a little bit asymmetrical. Tucking away his radiometer, he picked up one of the smooth, greenish heliotrope stones and hefted it in his hand, marveling at the red inclusions of iron oxide, which frankly resembled drops of blood. 

“They should have them at the Stop and Shop at the gas station. No need to go all the way to the grocery store.” There had been reports of rogue bands of Night Vale knitting club members roaming abroad near the A&P, so Cecil was probably concerned for Carlos’s welfare. Although Carlos had also heard some of their victims were also getting some very nice cable knit sweaters out of the deal. 

“I’ll go,” said Carlos.

Abandoning his barbecue fires for the moment, Cecil came over and smoothed out the lapels of his lab coat. “Hurry back. Please don’t get carried away taking scientific readings!”

Carlos leaned over and gently kissed Cecil on the forehead, right above his hairline. His hair was soft and pale as cocoon silk spun by a holometabolous moth. “I will only take as many readings as are required for my purposes,” Carlos assured him.

As it ended up, Carlos was more distracted by dithering over the bloodstones with jasper versus iron oxide inclusions. Carlos thought the latter was more in line with Cecil’s current altar, but the jasper was nice. In the end, he got one of each because, why not? And also picked up tofu dogs and a few more bags of chips of various and sundry flavors. 

He was clutching his shopping basket, heedlessly rounding the end cap full of butterfly wings when he almost ran into another shopper.

“Um, hello,” he told Steve Carlsberg, now anxious to avoid the confrontation that inevitably followed when this person met Cecil. 

“Stocking up for the _barbecue party_?” Steve Carlsberg snorted.

“No,” said Cecil, uncertain as to why exactly he was lying.

“I suppose Cecil has ordered you to hurry back to the party,” sighed Steve Carlsberg. “Probably no time at all to take readings on the Mesoamerican temple, hmm?”

Carlos grimaced, casually baring rows of teeth of such precision as would make an orthodontist faint. “I take orders from no one. I do all that is required in the name of science.”

“Looks to me like you're buying ouroboros-flavored taco chips and tofu dogs.”

“If you'll excuse me, I need to check out,” huffed Carlos, side-stepping Steve Carlsberg to get to the check-out counter with his purchases.

He returned to his car cursing Steve Carlsberg for putting him in a bad mood. He tossed his bags in the trunk of his hybrid sports coupe, and then gazed across the parking lot, towards where the evening sun glinted off the slanted rocks that comprised the ancient temple.

The door to the Stop and Shop whizzed open, and Steve Carlsberg emerged. Carlos ducked behind his car, not eager for another confrontation. Steve Carlsberg hopped into his car and, after spending a ridiculous amount of time adjusting all the mirrors, twice, squealed off in a belch of black smoke. Once again, Carlos smelled that funny odor, like burning tree resin.

Carlos straightened up, his knees aching. He cast a glance around the parking lot and then, grabbing his instruments from his glove compartment, stole towards the temple grounds.

The sheriff's secret police had erected a sign at the entrance, but due to security concerns, it was written in invisible ink. Carlos ignored it, creeping carefully into the temple grounds. It seemed weirdly familiar, but after living in Night Vale for so long, Carlos was acclimated to intense feelings of _déjà vu_ , which tended to crop up every time you flossed your teeth or scanned the skies for those pink things that seemed to be flying past these days.

He came to a set of stone steps, leading, it appeared, to a great altar at the top. He fished his radiometer out of his lab coat pocket and set it on the step. It immediately began twirling, faster and faster and faster, the delicate metal plates now a blur.

A strange humming sound welled up around him. He wondered if it was the local teens again, cruising by with their stereos blasting Fifteenth Century religious chants, as was the recent trend. He peered around the corner to see if he could see a funeral hearse out on the roadway, which inevitably meant juvenile delinquents, and was surprised to see graffiti had been spray-painted on one of the pillars

Muttering to himself about vandals, Carlos stood and stared at the graffiti. 

TEZ  
CAT  
LIP  
OCA 

…it said. Carlos tilted his head sideways, but it made no more sense that way. Anagrams for some more obscure and vaguely menacing government agencies? A roving group of Scrabble fiends? Or perhaps it was a set of real Vandals, escaped through that time portal in the A&P (did they ever get it fixed? The manager seemed slightly incompetent). Anything was possible in Night Vale.

Once again, the feeling of _déjà vu_ haunted him.

A black helicopter hovered overhead, and then was gone. The radiometer was now rotating so fast it had begun to tremble, shaking like moth trying to burst its pupal sac. As the humming increased in intensity, he reached over and grabbed the radiometer, only to have it burst, the delicate glass shattering to hundreds and hundreds of tiny sharp shards, slicing countless small cuts into his hands.

The humming ceased.

And Carlos was alone.

 

“The angels would like to view the instrument you were using to take your measurements in the park the other day.”

Carlos shook his head at Old Woman Josie who, along with several celestial escorts, was attending Cecil's housewarming barbecue. “The radiometer?”

“Yes.”

“Unfortunately, there was an accident.” 

That's what he had told Cecil anyway. The affable radio host had dissolved into near hysteria when Carlos had returned with the tofu dogs, his lab coat stained red. He hadn't wanted to further worry his dear friend just before an important party, so had told him he had tripped over an errant trilobite. Utilizing the awesome power of science, Carlos had managed to reverse the polarity on the A&P's time vortex by bridging it with that wormhole located underneath the laundry soap vending machine at the Laundry Mat, thus sucking away most of the remaining trilobites, as well as those Neanderthals who had taken up residence under the drawbridge after the _last_ time paradox. But oddly enough, a few of the prehistoric arthropods had managed to hang around in Night Vale, causing trouble wherever they skittered. 

Cecil had offered iodine and Star Wars: the Clone Wars Band-Aids. Carlos hadn't asked about this latter, but he now had a fine selection of selected droids and ewoks festooning his cut fingers. 

As for the party, it had been a great success. After he recovered from the shock and trauma of seeing Carlos's injured hands, Cecil had snapped back and turned into the world's most affable host, welcoming guests ranging from John Peters (you know, the farmer), who had brought a lovely peach cobbler, some peach jam, and a replica of the Taj Mahal made out of peaches; to an enormous five-headed individual Cecil would only introduce as “Ralphie,” even though Carlos highly suspected it was actually the dragon, Hiram McDaniels, as the person had pressed a McDaniels for mayor flyer into Cecil's hands when they were introduced.

“You and me, homeboy,” said one of the heads, the purple one, “we should catch up.”

“Catch up on … what exactly?” asked a bewildered Carlos. But “Ralphie” was distracted by a squirrel running across the yard.

Several mysterious hooded figures had flitted about at different times during the evening, as had known members of the Sheriff's secret police, who noshed down on the ouroboros-flavored chips and played horse shoes with some personnel from the black helicopter which had also touched down in Cecil's surprisingly capacious back yard. 

A man wearing a black ski mask sidled up to Carlos. This was the man all of the residents evidently took for the local sheriff. “Big house,” he commented.

“Yes, it is. The back yard is surprisingly capacious,” said Cecil, as they watched the black helicopter launch into the night.

“Big for just one person,” said the person everybody presumed to be the sheriff. And then he sidled off, to sample some cheese fries, leaving Carlos slightly puzzled at the comment.

To Carlos's surprise, Steve Carlsberg showed up at one point. He may have come with one of the hooded figures, or perhaps he popped out of the mysterious holes that were in the walls of everybody’s homes (Carlos had warned Cecil to tell people about those holes, but he wasn’t certain Cecil has passed on the warning). 

“Take any scientific readings lately, _Carlos_?” taunted Steve Carlsberg. Carlos fumed. And then Steve Carlsberg picked up the smooth black mirror that hung on a chain on his belt and patted his hair. Which was a little weird, because Steve Carlsberg was bald. 

Carlos side-stepped to peer over Steve Carlsberg’s shoulder into the mirror.

He froze.

“Steve Carlsberg!” snapped Cecil, who had just noticed his unwanted party guest. Carlos shook his head, trying to get a fix on the image he’d glimpsed in Steve Carlsberg’s mirror. Steve Carlsberg and Cecil engaged in one of their epic staring contests, so finally Carlos bodily hauled Cecil away to tend to the boca burgers on the grill, some of which had sprouted tentacles (as foodstuffs tended to do in Night Vale if you left them unattended) and were trying to form a social hierarchy. Steve Carlsberg, mercifully, slipped off into the night.

It was getting quite late. A couple of angels were now hovering over Carlos's shoulders, munching on the last of the tofu dogs (were angels vegetarian?) and staring at his colorful bandages with jeweled eyes. Old Woman Josie and the angels were amongst the last of Cecil's lingering guests. Carlos idly wondered if licensed NCIS bandages were available, and if so, whether angels ever suffered paper cuts. 

“This is a big house,” commented Old Woman Josie, as Cecil ran around, tossing empty beer bottles and discarded arthropod carapaces into his recycling bin.

“Yes,” Carlos agreed.

“Big for just one person.”

“A lot of people have been making that observation tonight,” snapped Carlos. It was late, and he was a little tired. “The house is neither bigger nor smaller than it is. Well, except for the rumpus room, but that's located over an inter-dimensional vortex.”

Old Woman Josie raised her eyebrow significantly, and Carlos pointedly ignored her.

He started thinking over the image he’d half-glimpsed in Steve Carlsberg’s mirror when something occurred to him. He looked around at the angels surrounding Old Woman Josie. “I wondered if any of you can tell me something. I saw a word spray-painted on the ancient Mesoamerican temple. At least, I think it was a word.”

“The ancient Mesoamerican temple out by the old gas station. On Third?” inquired a very beautiful tangerine-hued angel with eyes like orange chalcedony, who was somehow managing to devour a chili cheese tofu dog.

“Yes. That's the one. I saw something painted there. I didn’t know what it was, but I think it was a name.”

“What was the name?”

“Tezcatlipoca.”

Whisper soft, a slight breeze wafted in his face, a mutter of rustling feathers, and Carlos is alone again. The angels were gone – all of them, not just the one he was talking to – as was Old Woman Josie. 

“Something I said?” whispered Carlos.

“They didn't even finish their tofu dogs,” said Cecil, a hint of disappointment in his tone. 

“Cecil,” said Carlos. “I think…. I think I need to go to the library.”

Suddenly, Cecil was at his feet, the recycle bin discarded at his side. Cecil's arms wrapped around Carlos's knees, and he wailed, “Carlos, nooooooo!”

Carlos bent over, rubbing Cecil's back. “Don’t worry, Cecil. I'll be fine. I will take all precautions.”

Cecil dabbed his eyes on the hem of Carlos's lab coat. “I can't lose you to the library! We just co-hosted a party! This was a relationship milestone!”

Carlos was silent for a moment, utterly confused. He had helped shop for tofu dogs and tutti frutti, but was unsure as to the valence of these actions. “What kind of milestone?” he asked.

“Oh, never mind,” pouted Cecil.

Carlos hunkered down to be at eye level with his distraught friend. “Cecil. Please don't worry. I have an idea.”

 

_“And now, traffic. The City Council has been urging commuters to avoid the area around Third Street behind the gas station. No, not the new gas station. The other one. With the cute gas pumps. When questioned, they were characteristically elusive about it, muttering in unison about signs and portents, and then all leapt simultaneously into their getaway vehicle and roared off down the street, singing merry pirate songs and drinking rum, leaving reporters to stare in wonder. This has been Night Vale traffic.”_

 

Tamika Flynn stood at the library steps, snapping her gum, skateboard under her arm, katana strapped to her back, air of confidence belying her tender years.

Behind her, slouched against the building, were two boys about her age, both wearing Eternal Scout uniforms. Since Scout Master Harlan had been hauled away (to a better place, presumably, unless it was worse) the scouts had grown somewhat feral. They, too, were armed and carried skateboards. 

“Now, remember, if pursued by a librarian, do not attempt to flee into the trees. _There are no trees in the library!_ ” Cecil fussed, as he accompanied Carlos to the entryway.

“I'll be fine. Really,” Carlos assured him. “And thank you for arranging for my guides,” he added, indicating Tamika and her friends. 

Cecil bit his lip and peered at Carlos over his dark glasses, pink eyes rimmed red. Carlos stood back and, thinking it over, doffed his lab coat, draping it over Cecil’s trembling shoulders. He cupped Cecil’s jaw with a hand. “I’ll. Be. Fine.”

Carlos nodded to Tamika. Without turning around, she raised her hand and snapped her fingers. The Eternal scouts immediately hopped to attention. Then she turned, and the three children mounted their skateboards. Hoisting his book bag over his shoulder, Carlos started to follow them. He looked back at Cecil. “Thirty minutes. Wait for us here.” Cecil pulled Carlos’s lab coat tight around his collar and stuck up a shaking hand, wiggling his fingers to wave goodbye. And then the four crossed the threshold to enter the Night Vale public library.

The library was dark and cool inside, pristine stacks of books reaching up to the ceiling on either side. There was no sound but Carlos’s footsteps, and the steady roll of rubber wheels on the marble floor. “To the Fourteenth Century Mesoamerican history section,” Carlos instructed. Tamika made a gesture, and the Eternal scouts each darted to the side, Tamika hurrying straight ahead. 

There was a faint rustle, off to the side, something like pages turning. Carlos strained his neck, trying to see, but the library was dim. 

They walked (and skated) on. 

And then they all froze, everybody holding their breath.

Footsteps. Up above. Like somebody was walking across the roof.

Strange footsteps, a step and a thump. Like some creature was dragging a heavy load. Or limping. Step-thump. Step-thump. Step-thump.

Directly overhead, and then in back of them, towards the entrance. Step-thump. Step-thump. Step-thump.

And then it was gone.

Carlos breathed in and out. _Calm down_ , he told himself. He nodded to Tamika, and the kids skated off. Carlos followed.

They reached the Fourteenth Century Mesoamerican history section which, oddly enough, was in juxtaposition to the television and movie arts section. Carlos soon found what he was looking for. Fortunately, they had the audiobook version, so he grabbed it to listen to in his car. Then, on his way out, also grabbed a biography for Old Woman Josie and the angels, stuffing it into his book bag.

He signaled to Tamika, and the small party started to retrace their steps towards the entrance.

The rustling began again, a soft, faraway sound. His ears pricked up. There was another rustle, this time coming from the other side. He quickened his pace, children’s eyes wide. 

Rustle-rustle-rustle. 

It was coming from all sides, and in front, and behind. Carlos remembered Cecil’s advice. He looked over at Tamika.

And then it flashed, in the very corner of his eye.

_Librarian._

“Run!”

The three children flew on their skateboards, Carlos running behind, breathless, too terrified to look back, afraid of what he might see.

The party neared the main section. They had a straight shot to the entrance now. Maybe they would make it. Maybe-

With a terrible scream, a librarian leapt from its hiding place in the stacks and tackled one of the Eternal Scouts. Carlos and the other two rushed over to help their fallen comrade, but ground to a halt when more librarians swooped down from the stacks, teeth bared, claws extended, blocking their way. The librarian and the unfortunate Eternal Scout wrestled on the ground. But the Eternal Scout was no match for the fiendish librarian, who reared back for a killing blow.

“Let him go!” Carlos barked, not knowing what else to do.

The librarian hissed at Carlos, and then paused. It blinked at him. Frowning, it reached into its sweater vest and picked up the half-glasses dangling on a chain around its neck and peered through them. 

Suddenly, it made a strangled, almost human sound. “Shhhhhh!” it whispered. There was a whispering sound, and more rustling, and Carlos, Tamika, and the other Eternal scout gazed around in horror. They were suddenly completely surrounded by a pack of librarians!

A very large librarian (Carlos guessed it was the alpha) stood up on two legs and approached him. Carlos held his breath. It drew nearer, and stopped when it was about three or four feet away. 

“My Lord,” it said to Carlos, and then swept into a formal bow. “You are overdue.”

Ranging around them, all of the librarians straightened up, and then bowed.

Carlos shot a glance over at Tamika, who shrugged. Not knowing what else to do, he returned the bow.

The alpha librarian stood up straight.

“Well, this was nice,” said Carlos. “Uh, we were just going.” He nodded his head at Tamika and, trying to walk slowly, not showing fear, moved past the alpha librarian.

When Carlos was just abreast of him, the librarian said, “You don't know what you are, do you?”

Carlos shook his head. Gripping his book bag, and continuing to walk, he helped wrest the Eternal Scout from where he had fallen and then, with the librarians on either side bowing their heads reverently, some scratching the ground, emitting small choked-off growls, he and Tamika and the Scouts made their way out of the library, back into the enveloping desert heat of Night Vale.

“I got the book, Cecil! Cecil?” said Carlos as they emerged, triumphant, into the bright sunlight. He squinted around for Cecil, but saw no one. 

“Your boyfriend take off?” snapped Tamika, coolly popping her gum.

“Um. I don’t see Cecil. He must be otherwise occupied,” Carlos told her. “Thanks for your help!”

Tamkia waved, and the three children skated off. Carlos walked to his car, oddly disappointed. For whatever reason, he had pictured himself showing the book to Cecil. It was silly really.

A note was taped to his car. _“Perfect Carlos, I am sorry for not waiting, but you are taking a long time in there, and I need to get to the studio, as I am a community radio host, and it is important that I do my job. XXXX Cecil.”_ Carlos sighed, smiling fondly. It was just like Cecil to sign it with X's.

 

_“Tezcatlipoca was one of the more malign Mesoamerican deities, renowned for wrecking a wide path of destruction, and also his marriage to Hank Azaria, the voice of Moe, Szyslak, which sadly ended in divorce in 2000. The god, who was also known as the Smoking Mirror, later won two Emmys for his role on Mad About You. The god was especially known for his fierce rivalry with his brother, television's Paul Reiser.”_

 

Carlos had grown worried. Driving in his car, he had scanned his radio dial for Cecil’s program (which often tended to jump frequencies – just one of those things that happened in Night Vale) but for some reason was unable to find WTNV. Unnerved by the silence he had jammed in a random CD from the audiobook instead. Unfortunately, after decades sitting in the Night Vale public library, the book, like many volumes there, seemed to have picked up traces of a Helen Hunt biography.

He pulled up just around the corner from a familiar house, and was surprised to see Old Woman Josie emerging to greet him as he reached her walkway. She hastily pushed the door shut behind her, leaning her back against it.

Old Woman Josie put a finger to her lips, gesturing for quiet as Carlos approached. “The angels will hear you. I have them all distracted, watching a season three Breaking Bad marathon.”

“I got you something,” whispered Carlos, handing over the Mark Harmon biography he had picked up at the library.

“Oh, aren’t you considerate? And you went to the library?” she asked, noting the Night Vale Public Library sticker.

Carlos nodded. “Josie. Why did you and the angels leave our barbecue so quickly the other night?”

“Oh. Um.” Josie was looking everywhere but into Carlos’s eyes. “Oh. Er. I remembered we had the knitting club coming over. It was pretty boring. There was some exchange of gunfire, and we made some lovely angora sweaters.”

“Josie?”

Josie’s pale blue eyes darted towards the door, and then she huffed. “It’s not _you_ , dear. You create. But he destroys. And he tends to take everything with him when he goes. You know, the universe, pie, television police procedurals. All gone. Boom!”

“Who are you talking about?”

An unearthly voice from within the house suddenly called out, “Yo! Gatorade me, bro!”

“I have to go,” said Josie, who slipped inside before Carlos could stop her.

Sighing and shaking his head, Carlos walked back around the corner to his car. Much to his annoyance, one of the side windows had been smashed. He looked around, but no one was there. Cursing under his breath, he carefully picked through the shards of broken glass to grasp the stone that had been pitched through his window. He picked it up, shiny, smooth, and black as the night sky.

A felsic rock.

Obsidian.

Carlos suddenly felt a shiver run down his spine. He grabbed the audiobook and jammed in a new CD, and then hit the fast forward button.

A shiver went down his spine.

Tossing the book carelessly into the passenger seat, which probably would have greatly annoyed the tribe of librarians had they been there to witness this moment, Carlos hopped into his car, and hurtled off, the smell of burning rubber wafting in his wake.

He arrived, moments later, in the parking lot of the gas station out on Third Street. (No, not _that_ gas station.) He leapt out of the car and entered the temple, ignoring the Secret Police sign, running up the stone steps to the altar, praying that he was not too late. The acrid smell of burning resin filled his nostrils.

The high priest was there, up at the top of the steps, surrounded by offerings of burning incense. And, strapped to the altar, his sacrificial victim: Cecil, who was still wearing Carlos’s lab coat.

As Cecil struggled to speak around the gag in his mouth, the high priest doffed his ceremonial headdress. Laughing, he flourished his smooth black dagger.

“Steve Carlsberg,” said Carlos. “Or should I say, _Tezcatlipoca_.”

The Aztec deity sighed. He shimmered, and all traces of Steve Carlsberg floated away to reveal a man with eyes black as stones, a stripe running down his face. His ceremonial dress was studded all around in black mirrors. 

His right foot was made of a black stone. Obsidian.

“Took you long enough, smart guy,” huffed Tezcatlipoca, twirling the dagger. “I was dropping hints like _crazy_.”

“I wasn’t paying much attention during anthropology class,” Carlos admitted. “Why don’t you let Cecil go, Steve? Or whoever you think you are?”

“Wanted to make you work for it. Like _I_ had to work for it. I’ve been looking for you a long time. A long time! Ever since you immolated yourself that last time. But I knew you’d show up eventually. You always do.”

“We can talk about this calmly, like adults, Steve.”

The priest shook his head. “We never talk about this. We fight. That’s the way of things. You create. I destroy. That’s just how it goes. Destiny, and all that shit.”

“I don’t want to fight.” 

Cecil struggled against his bonds, his red eyes wide.

Tezcatlipoca waved his arms. “It’s the end of the Fifth World! It’s time! And it’s coming down, right here. Right now.”

“No. It’s not,” said Carlos. “Let. Cecil. Go.”

“You still don’t know what you are, do you?” chortled Tezcatlipoca. “You will learn, my brother. I will teach you. A hard lesson.” He raised the dagger.

“I know what I am,” said Carlos defiantly. “I know exactly what I am! I am a scientist. Now _let go of my boyfriend, you fucking jerk!_ ”

He leapt at Tezcatlipoca, grabbing his arm. But then Tezcatlipoca grew. And grew. And grew. He was dark and vast, trapping the light. Tezcatlipoca was a nexus, absorbing radiant energy.

He flung away Carlos the way you’d bat away a fly. Well, the way you’d bat away a fly if you lived anywhere but Night Vale, where the flies tended to carry automatic weapons.

Roaring with a sick, evil laughter, Tezcatlipoca once again raised his dagger up over where a helpless Cecil lay, heart pounding in his chest. Carlos held his head in his hands. There was something trying to get in. Memories washed over him. Brothers. Creating the world. And then losing it. Seeing it destroyed. Seeing his brother smash everything. Over and over and over again.

And then…. Carlos changed. In retrospect, he wasn’t entirely certain how he achieved it, but he wasn’t Carlos any more, at least not his human incarnation. He was sleek and long and sinewy, all taut powerful muscles and snapping teeth. And feathers! Well, that was unexpected. And a little embarrassing. But what could you do?

Carlos – or what had been Carlos – flew up and somehow wound himself around Tezcatlipoca’s clumsy obsidian ankle. With a cry, the dark giant tripped and came crashing down the steps, Carlos wrestling with him all the way. Carlos tore at him, snapping strong jaws and raking vicious claws. The feathers weren’t much help, but they were pretty. 

Tezcatlipoca raised his obsidian knife, and plunged it down, where it pierced Carlos’s tough, scaly skin. Carlos shrieked, writhing in pain from the hot knife, and he felt consciousness begin to ebb as his life blood seeped away.

“Carlos!” screamed Cecil. Somehow, he had wrested free of his bonds, and his cry pierced the veil of approaching night. He rushed Tezcatlipoca, blasting him with a fire extinguisher. Tezcatlipoca reeled.

Carlos’s eyes snapped open. He wondered where the heck Cecil had found that fire extinguisher. And then, with the last of his strength, he pounced, his powerful jaws seeking Tezcatlipoca’s soft neck. The dark god emitted a terrible scream as Carlos’s teeth made contact, ripping at flesh. Blood was everywhere, soaking the stone. Tezcatlipoca bucked, and went into spasms. And then with a terrible cry, he was no more.

And then Carlos was lying on the stone steps, blood pooling beneath him.

And he was only Carlos.

And Cecil was there.

“My beautiful, perfect Carlos,” murmured Cecil, who was cradling him. “Are you all right, my lovely Carlos?”

With an effort, and Cecil helping him, Carlos sat up. He carefully unbuttoned his shirt, to get a better read of his injuries. He stared at his own chest. Although there was a lot of blood, it appeared that he was only scratched. “I’m fine. I think.”

And then Cecil was upon him, holding him, tenderly kissing his neck. 

“Cecil.”

“Mmmm?”

“Where did you get the fire hydrant?”

“City council ordinance. All harbingers of the apocalypse must be up to fire code!”

“Oh.”

The radio host continued his nuzzling, so Carlos gripped him by the shoulders and pushed him back. “Cecil! You realize I’m an immortal Aztec serpent. _With feathers_!”

“Yes,” muttered Cecil, who went right back to sucking on Carlos’s neck. “You're perfect.”

“And you’re going to….. You’re…. You know you’re going to give me a hickey if you keep doing that?”

“Mmmm,” answered Cecil.

 

They ended up back at Carlos’s apartment, up above the lab, flinging clothes everywhere: a sock draped over an array of test tubes, a sweater vest dangling from a hissing Jacob’s ladder. Carlos needed to touch ever millimeter of Cecil's fine skin, to measure him, and weigh him in his arms. Cecil, arching his back, pale as a bone, pale as the moon, radiating.

That night was the first night they made love, Cecil and Carlos. And if it was a little desperate, a little needy, it was only because after all the eons - after building the world and creating humans, only to destroy it all, over and over and over again – after all of that, this was the first night that Carlos had his beloved Cecil with him.

Afterwards, they stole up onto the roof of Carlos’s building and sat there, watching the strange lights that hovered over the community, the Big Rico’s Pizza sign blinking on and off, on and off. 

Cecil, reclining in Carlos’s lap, wrapped up in his lab coat, twined a pale hand into his. “So, I’m your _boyfriend_?”

Carlos traced a finger down the sinewy tattoo that followed the curve of Cecil’s forearm. “Yes. That appears to be the case. Yes.” 

“You know, I have a big house.”

Carlos’s heart skipped a beat. “Yes?”

“And it’s _mostly_ free of carnivorous trilobites.”

Carlos held Cecil tight, perfect teeth all in alignment.

 

_“We have an announcement. Because giant Mesoamerican temple behind the gas station on Third Street (not the new gas station, the other one) did not sink back into the ground, nor did it blow up dramatically in the wake of Tezcatlipoca’s demise, Carlos, our most intriguing outsider, in cooperation with the management of the gas station, has declared that henceforth and forthwith, the grounds will be dedicated as a skate park for the school children of Night Vale. And that, furthermore, no hooded figures, nor librarians, will ever be allowed to enter._

_“And if this annoys the mysterious hooded figures, well, they can go stick it to themselves. Seriously, they have their dog park. I mean, what the hell?_

_“Which brings me to an announcement of a very personal nature. Although I fully realize this radio program is not supposed to be about my personal life – this is community radio,_ your _radio, after all - but I’m just giddy as a chicken during the gibbous moon, and I can’t resist. For those of you who don’t know, Carlos the scientist, perfect in every way, has agreed to move in with me. Now I know we will have our challenges, as I am a community radio host, and he is an immortal Mesoamerican lizard deity, with feathers, but don’t all new couples face such things?_

_In other news, a small coterie of carnivorous trilobites, who escaped being sucked back into the time portal in the automatic door of the A &P, has banded together and is currently running for mayor against current mayor, Pamela Winchell, and Hiram McDaniel, a five-headed dragon. We interviewed the mayor, seeking a reaction…. ”_

 

Carlos reached over and turned down the radio.

“How’s the albedo today?” asked Old Woman Josie, who was relaxing with her Mark Harmon biography as Carlos ran his experiments in the park. She was wearing a very find cable knit sweater.

“Surprisingly, it’s returned to normal.”

Old Woman Josie set down her book and glared at Carlos. “Normal? In Night Vale.”

“There’s a first time for everything.”

“So. Who are you gonna vote for in the election, Carlos?”

“Well, I think maybe Hiram McDaniel. He’s got a good head on his shoulders. A lot of them. But the carnivorous trilobites have a very solid health care policy.”

“And the house?”

Carlos quit taking measurments and went to sit down next to Old Woman Josie. “Sometimes…. Sometimes we find feathers in the shower drain.”

“Yeah. I have that problem too.”

They smiled at each other. And sat back to watch the black helicopters whiz by.

**Author's Note:**

> _Notes: I noticed it’s become common fanon that Cecil is some sort of Eldritch abomination, and Carlos is a human. Which is cool, but since I can never do anything the right way round, I thought it would be fun to write a twist on it where Carlos is the supernatural being. In case it wasn’t clear, in this story he was a reincarnation of Quetzalcoatl, an Aztec god in charge of stuff like learning and knowledge. He also invented books, which is why the librarians have a soft spot for him. (You saw that horror movie and thought he was just a flying lizard, right?) This god had a long-running fight with his brother, Tezcatlipoca, which often ended in the world getting destroyed. Yeah, sibling rivalry is a bitch. Also, Tezcatlipoca, to my knowledge, was never married to Hank Azaria._


End file.
